


Lay your hands on me

by SunlitGarden



Category: Riverdale (TV 2017)
Genre: Anxiety Referenced, Betty draws cute things, Cheryl Blossom & Betty Cooper Friendship, Eventual Romance, Eventual Sex, F/M, Flirting, Fluff and Smut, Jealous Jughead Jones, Jughead says Relax, Massage, Massage Therapist Jughead Jones, POV Betty Cooper, Pining Betty Cooper, Strangers to Lovers, Sweet/Hot, Tension Headaches, comment cards, hinted choni, it's not THAT kind of massage parlor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-09
Updated: 2019-09-11
Packaged: 2020-11-02 01:43:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 16,400
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20579555
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SunlitGarden/pseuds/SunlitGarden
Summary: Betty cherishes massage therapist Jughead's touch and empathy beyond a professional client-therapist capacity. Her cute comment cards, tips, and glowing reviews lead Jughead to pursue her as a permanent companion. A connection even more satisfying than nerve endings and caresses is brewing with them each session - and with the way his hands work, it’s only a matter of time before she feels particularly good enough to blurt out,“I love you.”





	1. Relax

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome to fluffy awkward not-quite-flirting-because-we're-in-a-professional-setting time. I like Bughead. I like massages. This had to happen at some point.
> 
> I REGRET NOTHING! Enjoy ^-^
> 
> Also, please let me know if you want two follow up chapters at ~5300k each or just a giant WHOOSH

This place couldn't scream "Polly's Recommendation" more if it tried. The light flute or whatever hollow instrument is playing irritates Betty's already flaming tension headache. Some kind of rock lamp glows softly in the corner next to a gently tinkling custom-installed waterfall. Most likely they’re supposed to do something like _cleanse the aura_.

Cheryl must sense the judgment radiating off of Betty in waves because her dangerously sharp nails handcuff around Betty to keep her from bolting out the door and disrupting the karmic flow. "Stop worrying or you'll make it worse," Cheryl snipes, daring to poke around on her phone despite the clear signs that electronics are discouraged in the Zen Area.

Glancing pointedly at her human shackle, Betty feels sullen. "Am I being detained for detox?”

"Polly insisted that I help you relax, even if I have to follow you in and strap you to the table myself."  
  
"_Cheryl_!" Betty squirms, tugging her sleeves down to cover her palms.

The curtained entryway flutters with movement. "Cheryl?"  
  
A petite girl with caramel skin and rose-pink curls wrapped up in a stylish clip approaches, arching an eyebrow at the way the girls are linked together.  
  
With a flashing red smile, Cheryl drops her cousin's wrist and slips her phone back into her purse. Her long cherry-colored hair is practically a wave of its own when she turns.  
  
"Oh, did you two want to go together?" The pink-haired girl's smile nearly twitches with effort. Betty gets it. She's worked in customer service _and_ for her mother and knows how frustrating moving things around can be.  
  
"No, Cher. You go. I'll...I'll stay."  
  
Pursing her lips, Cheryl finally seems to decide it's safe enough to leave her. "Toni, my cousin," she tells her massage therapist offhandedly, as if that explains everything. "She's a handful," Betty hears, just as they disappear past the curtains. The massage therapist laughs, a weird sound amidst harps.  
  
Betty attempts to recenter herself on the edge of the light beige lounge chair she's been corralled into. There isn't much time to make an escape since someone wearing a white tank top and soft gray pants comes for her shortly after. Betty keeps trying to suppress her fight or flight instincts, especially considering how tall he is and the tattoos creeping past his shirt. This guy could probably haul her over his shoulder and strap her down, just like Cheryl threatened. Although if it has to be someone holding her down...at least it's someone attractive.   
  
"Betty?" The stranger offers, inky black hair kept out of his face by a gray hat, the edges ridged like a crown. His features are delicate, sloped, somehow elegant, and she wonders if he has a hippie name like "Prince." His smile raises up more on one side than the other, and she realizes with a jolt that he's waiting for her to confirm.  
  
"Yes," she blushes, standing and smoothing her skirt. "Betty Cooper," _Riverdale Register_, she almost adds.  
  
"Jughead Jones." Not only is he tall and blue-eyed and a _man_ but his hands are large enough that she wouldn't be surprised if he was recruited for the NBA. Cheryl probably told the front desk she's a bigger girl or something else vaguely insulting just out of pure habit. This man's hands are going to be on her body. This man called _Jughead_, she idly reminds herself. "I'll be working with you today. Shall we?" He gestures, slender fingers pulling aside the curtained entry.  
  
She doesn't affirm so much as make a quiet noise and duck in the general direction of forward. He falls into step just behind her, subtly guiding with arm gestures and head nods towards an open room. It's disorienting, not knowing where she's headed. Wincing, Betty steps into the candlelit room, thinking it's more ideal for a date or a nap than anything else. Dark chocolate on the pillow. Cucumber water in the corner. Soft mood music and a nonthreatening color palette.  
  
Jughead lingers in the doorway, eyeing her apprehension with quiet concern that makes her want to bury whatever anxiety seems to radiate off of her in waves for a stranger to sniff out. Although _stranger_ may not be the right word, as she does know his name.

"So what brings you in today? Anything you want to focus on?"  
  
"My cousin and sister say that massage therapy can help with headaches, so...that, please. And relaxation, I guess."  
  
"Tension headache? Stress?" She nods, clasping her hands together so she doesn't dig her nails in. "I've got you. I'll be back in just a few minutes. Please get comfortable, stomach down, on the table."  
  
At least he's nice, she thinks. Sometimes when she goes to spas with her cousin she imagines stark people with firm, unwavering determination to shape her into what she's supposed to be. Arched eyebrows. Hairless legs. Beautiful and confident and oiled up like she's ready to be shot down a water slide into society. Although she supposes that's not Polly's style, more Cheryl's. Polly's always been more of an organic person, using baking soda instead of shampoo and subscribing to Bohemian-chic fashions that scream modern Woodstock.  
  
Betty sheds her clothes quietly as if she's in a library and the sound of a zipper will disturb whatever energy is supposed to be here. She's not sure why Cheryl's insistence of going bare or with a thong was so convincing. It's not like he'll be dealing with those...areas. Although maybe her hips could use some attention since she jogs so often. It's supposed to help with stress. Her thumbs skim the waist band, finally deciding to ditch the undergarments and fold them under her other clothes so she's not advertising her nakedness.  
  
The bedding is soft, luxurious, and pre-warmed on the table. She almost wants to ask Cheryl if she got a recommendation from here, because they seem eerily similar to the ones in Thornhill’s guest rooms. Sliding between the sheets, Betty feels comfortable enough to close her eyes. Naked and warm and comfortable. All good things, she muses, before being jolted out of her reverie with a quiet knock. A moment later the door opens, Jughead peeking in.  
  
"Are you comfortable?"  
  
"Yes, thank you."  
  
"Temperature okay?"  
  
"Yes, although you could turn it down. I might pass out if I get too cozy."  
  
Flashing her a quarter of a smirk, he coats his impressive hands with lube. Lotion? _Oils_, she decides. "I better cool it down, otherwise I have to pinch you at the end."  
  
Clearly he's made the joke before, and probably heard hers, but she smiles at him nonetheless. As he moves forward, she's almost hesitant to put her head in the rest because then she can't see him anymore. It's a silly thing to worry about during a massage, but she's nervous. It's never been easy for her to trust people, especially not when she's vulnerable, naked, and in pain. Taking a deep breath, she sinks her face along the pillowed recess and tries to relax.  
  
They start slow with a hot towel on her skin, a typical warm-up. It's not intimate, just a little disarming. The second his hands clap on her lower back, she gasps, his palms pushing all the pressure from her tailbone through her shoulders like it's nothing at all.  
  
"You okay?"  
  
"Y-yes."  
  
"Pressure good?"  
  
"Really good," she says quietly, almost ashamed that she can't remember the last time touching someone felt this amazing. Or someone touching her. Cheryl would eat her alive if she ever confessed that one. Maybe it's just been too long since she's had a massage? The last time was her 18th birthday, or maybe her 20th?  
  
Tension melts off of her. She lets him do his work, reveling in the complexities of nerve endings along her spine that she didn't even know could be activated.  
  
"Any areas you want me to focus on?"  
  
Could she say _everything_ and still be dignified? Probably not.  
  
"Anywhere that feels good."  
  
"M'kay," he chuckles. "I'll just assume you'll tell me what _doesn't_ feel good, then."  
  
Could she be any more embarrassing? Maybe he gets people like her all the time, people who don't know what they want until it's digging into them, getting that spot _right there_. Mentally, she shoves the internal doubt train off the tracks into a hopefully fiery death and tries to relax. It's easier with someone literally pushing the tension out of her body.  
  
The assuredness of his craft makes her a little wistful. If only she could be that confident. To know with every move she'd be doing the right thing. Making things better. Instead, she's scrambling to pick up articles her mother's writers have dropped, dust them off, and turn them into something new. Plus, she has to...  
  
Her thoughts get buried under relief when his hands curl into her neck and shoulders. The pressure that's been compressing her brain eases, a dull tingling replacing the vice-grip on her skull.  
  
It's like the black spots dotting around the edge of her thoughts have vanished, wiped clean with gentle rotations. She almost tells him that she loves him.   
  
_Get it together, Betty_.  
  
She inhales deeply, sighing in exhale.  
  
"A little better?" She can hear the smirk in his tone.  
  
"Yes, thanks. You could probably spend the next hour doing that and I'd be happy."  
  
"I think the rest of your body might get jealous."  
  
"I don't care, as long as I get to keep feeling like this," she sighs contentedly.  
  
_Oh my god_, she flushes, hearing him exhale a chuckle. He probably thinks she's insane. Better to keep quiet.  
  
The silence serves her well. Soon her anxiousness melts away amidst smooth caresses along her ribs, her legs, the tender arches of her feet. Her bones cackle tension like a fire pit with sparks.  
  
_Yes_, she keeps thinking. Just a single syllable. _Yes. Good_.  
  
It's a welcome break from the usual,_ "You have to, it’s not good enough, you have to fix it"_ rambling rapids under her thought process.  
  
He's so gentle with her, bending her knee and foot to relax. Warmth floods through her veins, prickling and releasing through the rest of her body. The thighs...her muscular, bulging yet still somehow fatty thighs are the hardest part for her to lay through without digging her nails in. He must be able to feel it. Fat, rolling everywhere. The ugly veins and thick, knotted bruises buried deep in the chunky flesh she tries so hard to sculpt. But he doesn't outwardly note when she gently edges her legs away, just finishes his set of strokes and carefully places the heated blanket back over her before moving to her side.  
  
"Betty? Would you like to continue on your back?"  
  
It takes a second before she realizes that means there won't be any more _back_ massages. Still, he must have a plan, so she says, "Yes," and waits for cool air to hit her backside as he lifts the sheet. Even as she shuffles, her arms draw up to cover her breasts. But he's not looking. He doesn't even see her, probably, caught in the monotonous rhythm of everyday motion.  
  
She edges lower on the table until her loose bun is no longer dragging along the face receptacle and she's properly aligned. The thought of looking at him makes her nervous, like he'll be real instead of the faceless force that moves pain out of her body.  
  
The wet noise of oils draws her focus and with a startled glance she realizes he's holding her hand. Working it, moving from her armpit down to her fingers. How...?  
  
It's surreal, and she watches as something shiny and glowing leaves comfort in its wake. This isn't unknotting tension so much as just...touching. Reaffirming that she's present as the shell of her body becomes fluid and warm. A thumb grazes her palms, but it doesn't hurt. Doesn't slow in horror, or skim any faster than it should. It just goes. Another part of her. Touched.  
  
Confused, she lets her head fall back down, not even realizing she'd raised it in the first place. Jughead glances at her with vague curiosity, but doesn't pry.  
  
Throat feeling sticky, she feels the need to break the silence. To escape the ambient noise and have just a second of being in control again. "I'm sorry, are you bored?"  
  
A half-smile quirks up his face, but doesn't last. "No, why?"  
  
"It's just..." She stares at his fingers so effortlessly bringing hers alive. "This must be so ordinary for you."  
  
"I dunno. It's therapeutic. Probably more for you than it is for me.”

Flinching, she tugs her hand almost out of his grasp before he readjusts to soothe her again. Sometimes it's like her scars are alive, demanding things, speaking _for _her. Just like the pounding in her head. Gaze shifting down to the table, Jughead clears his throat. "Sorry. I've been told my sense of humor isn't for everyone. I got into this knowing it was kind of a quiet job, so I'm used to it. I like that aspect of it, most days."  
  
Betty nestles into the silence that follows. But it's not comfortable anymore. It's swelling, begging to be broken. "So how _did_ you get into this?"  
  
"They grabbed me off the street." Jughead sends her a cursory glance to make sure she's gotten the joke, both of them biting down smiles. "I had a crossroads before me and I decided to choose healing."  
  
Interesting word choice. There's definitely a story there. "So why massage? Why here?"  
  
Looking off at the far wall, Jughead shrugs. "Because I don't like blood and nobody listens to their chiropractors. As for why here, it's as good a place as any. I have a few family friends in the area, they recommended me to Serpentine Spa. Besides, the trance music lets me zone out and plan my novel in the down time."  
  
"Novel? What's it about?"  
  
His face twists into something unreadable, like he regrets mentioning it in the first place. "I'm sorry," she flushes. "You're working. You probably don't want to talk about your personal life. I mean, unless you do, if it helps the time pass. Although it sounds like spacing out does the trick too. Sorry. As you were." Letting out a deep breath, Betty fixes her gaze on the ceiling.  
  
"I don't mind talking," he says carefully. "Depending on the conversation."  
  
Well she's certainly not going to fall into that trap. "So I have to be better than your mystery novel?"  
  
"You just have to be more gripping," he teases, squeezing her hand one last time before placing it gently on the table and moving to the other side.  
  
"That sounds like a lot of pressure."  
  
At least her bad pun earns a troublingly soft smile. "Only if you want it to be."  
  
Why is she so nervous? A severe flapping seems to be happening inside of her ribcage, so she tries to focus on a ceiling tile or the trance music, lowering her heart rate until it's at a normal level. "How about we stick to easy topics? Like..." She searches her brain, unable to believe she's ever been a journalist when she can't even drudge up a non-personal question.  
  
All the other things she wants to ask him keep popping up instead. If he has a partner. The story behind his name. His hat. His novel. Weird customers. What she should do to be the best one, or at least the most accommodating as possible. She has a feeling she's not doing a great job.  
  
"What have you been reading lately?"  
  
His question is a godsend. "Toni Morrison."  
  
"Oof." He makes a wounded expression.  
  
"What?" She tries not to grin at his dubiousness. "She's amazing!"  
  
"I'm not saying she isn't, her stuff can just be depressing as hell. Which one are you on?"  
  
"_Beloved_. It's my favorite."  
  
"So you've read it before?"  
  
"Yes, my copy is practically disintegrating from rereading it so much. I actually had to tape the cover back on."  
  
"Hm," he muses, and she's not sure if he's making fun of her when he says, "No wonder you're so stressed."  
  
Discussing books keeps her mind steady. Her cheeks almost start to ache from smiling and she wonders if that's the reason he only indulges half of one at a time. Jughead moves behind her and scoops under her shoulder blades, stealing the breath right out of her lungs and opening her nerve endings. She closes her eyes, basking in the ministrations that are just for her, where she doesn't have to do anything. The conversation melts away with her tension.  
  
_I love you_, she almost says again, feeling like she can breathe underwater or blow bubbles in the air.  
  
She is vaguely aware of him moving a stool behind her, but doesn't bother opening her eyes because there's no way she can see him from this angle anyway. The tips of his fingers rake along her scalp, igniting the delicious feeling of her whole head being good for something other than mediocre ideas and painful reminders. It's heavenly. Absolutely heavenly.  
  
Slowly, with one last little rub to the nubs of her ears, Jughead stops.  
  
It's not...it can't be over. She opens her eyes, and even though the lighting is dull she still feels like she's being woken up from a dream, wanting to plead for just five more minutes.  
  
Jughead seems familiar with that reaction, patiently wiping his hands on a towel. "How do you feel, Betty?"  
  
"Amazing." _Keep going_, she wants to beg. But that wouldn’t be fair to him. Their appointment is over.  
  
"Glad to hear it. Take your time getting ready. I've left a hot towel if you'd like to wipe off. I'll be just outside with a water when you're done."  
  
"Oh. Thank–thank you," she manages, sitting up with a hand to her chest to prevent the sheet from tilting. It feels rude to lay there like a lug when he's just been on his feet for an hour, even after a brief respite with the stool. "You don't have to. There's water outside."  
  
"It helps with detoxing after a massage. Plus it prevents people from lapping at the waterfall." Catching his offbeat sense of humor, Betty giggles. Jughead clears his throat and nods curtly. "It's my pleasure." He exits to the faint sounds of wind instruments.  
  
Oddly enough, her heart's racing. She doesn't want to put down the sheet, even though she's alone. It's like she's laying down in someone else's home or been sleeping on the job. But the all-familiar ache of work-related thoughts doesn't flare up. Instead, she's hit with motivation. She snatches the hot towel, nearly burning her fingers as she swipes it across her skin. Even washed, her skin has a healthy, silky texture. She still feels oiled up, but more like she's supposed to spend the day in expensive sheets loving herself, not rubbing elbows with society, preening for her best angle. Maybe this whole spa is an encouragement of self-care. Maybe that's why Polly likes it so much, and why even Cheryl got on board. She's all about self-love.  
  
Everything feels sensual, even sliding her clothes back on. There's a little station in the corner with a pen, hair ties, and comment cards. There are even little business cards on recycled materials with his name on them. Jughead Jones: Serpentine Spa, with a little crown above the spa's snake logo. Smiling to herself, she runs her thumb over it. It’s sweet. Betty takes a little envelope and leaves him a tip, scrawling a sincere little thank you and smiley face. As a last-minute thought, she adds another smiley face, giving one a bun and the other a crown.  
  
It's childish.  
  
That instinct makes her want to crumple the drawing in her fist and start anew. But...this time, she won't. She's too relaxed to get worked up over a drawing for someone she's never met before and will probably never see again. So what if it's childish? It makes her happy, and maybe it'll make him happy too. Even if this thing has a full smile compared to his half one.  
  
_You're embarrassing,_ she sighs, rolling her eyes at herself and opening the door. Disoriented, she looks around, surprised to see him leaning casually across the hall. He's watching her. Waiting for her. She self-consciously tugs at her bun, wondering if she took too long to put herself together.  
  
He dangles a water bottle by its neck, straightening at her approach. After laying down for so long, she'd forgotten their height difference and feels a little dizzy all over again.  
  
"Thanks." She smiles, cushioning the water bottle in her palm.  
  
"I hope you enjoyed your first massage with us."  
  
"Thank you, I did."  
  
"Try not to read anything too depressing and remember to drink that water," Jughead teases, leading her back to the main "Zen Area."  
  
"I can replenish it in the waterfall out front, right?" The lame joke earns her a chuckle.  
  
Cheryl's draped across a chair looking slightly less put-together and extremely relaxed. Betty wonders if the same dreamy quality is affecting her.  
  
"Bye, Betty," Jughead offers, wrapping his hand around her wrist when they shake.  
  
He disappears behind the curtain with that little smile of his and she swears he's left a piece of it with her.  
  
"I already paid, so don't bother wondering how much to leave Blue-Eyed Bill. I know you're weak for gratuity."  
  
"But I–Cher, that's too much! Plus, I already left him a cash tip in the room."  
  
Cheryl rolls her eyes, but the sharp movements normally associated with her haven't returned. "It's amazing we're related."  
  
Pursing her lips, Betty watches Cheryl wobble upright in sky-high heels. "Amazing is right."  
  
~~~~~~~~~~  
  
The headache returns a month later. No matter how much water she drinks or attempted self-massage, it isn't going away. She can still feel the universal pressure expanding in her skull and sucking her thoughts dry.  
  
"Maybe you should get another massage," Polly offers, sipping carefully so as not to disturb the pretty leaf art the barista made for her.  
  
"Or another job," Cheryl chides.  
  
Betty glares at her, bringing the latte in her lap to her lips so she doesn’t get into it with her cousin. Like it's that easy. Just get a new job. Disappoint the whole family. Like Polly didn't have that talk when she started her jewelry-making business. Now she mostly does event planning for the Blossom nonprofit and the occasional music gig with their cousin and Cheryl's twin, Jason. Betty does...everything, it feels like.  
  
"Self-care should be on those to-do lists of yours," Polly encourages between delicate sips. "I know meditation doesn't speak to you, but Dr. Evernever says..."  
  
Betty tunes out, pain sharp and fierce behind her eyes.  
  
"That's it, I'm making you an appointment," Cheryl sighs, snagging her phone. "I'm going to see Toni tomorrow. Do you think you can hold on until then?"  
  
"I...yes,” she manages, gripping the warm beverage in her hands like a lifeline.  
  
"Do you care who I set you up with?"  
  
Betty's cheeks flush hot at the memory of a discarded smile. "Um, Jughead was nice."  
  
"Jughead," Polly repeats slowly, as if she's adding the name to an invisible registry.  
  
"Please don't stalk and solicit my massage therapist," Betty begs.  
  
Their cousin rolls her eyes, cleaning the underside of her nails. "This is Cheryl Blossom. I'd like to make an appointment for my cousin Betty Cooper? Same time as mine. Separate rooms. She said she really liked Jughead," Cheryl teases, tongue swiping the corner of her lips. Betty sinks into a seat cushion, hating her family for a hot second. "So move them and book Betty. I'm sure you have another one who could take his place. Oh? How fortunate. We'll see you then." Immensely satisfied, Cheryl ends the call. "See? Super easy."  
  
“Thank you.”

“My pleasure, cousin.”

Betty closes her eyes, hoping that soon, it will actually be _hers._  
  
~~~~~~~  
  
Betty's pain puts too much pressure on her scalp, so she nervously runs her hand along the braid she's trying for today. It's not a go-to hairstyle for her and she knows it's stupid, but she kinda wants to look nice for her massage.  
  
It's tough not to worry about her own appearance when Cheryl struts off in thigh-high boots, an appreciative Toni checking out her style from behind. Maybe there's something more going on there, but Betty's too distracted to unravel that line of mystery.  
  
"Betty." Jughead greets, not needing confirmation this time, simply offering her his hand. She practically melts in relief at the sight of it.  
  
"Jug." Surprised, he holds back a smile. "Head," she finishes, shaking her head at how informal she tried to be after one massage.  
  
"Nice to see you again."  
  
"And you."  
  
"Same as last time?"  
  
"Y-yeah."  
  
"Come right this way, I'll take care of you."  
  
_I'll take care of you_.  
  
It's his job. That shouldn't mean anything to her, but it makes her feel warm and grateful all the same. Betty bites her lip and storms into the room.  
  
"I'll be back in a few minutes," he promises, not bothering with instructions but still flashing her a piece of a smile. Maybe one day she'll get a whole set. Or...maybe smiling is not his thing. It's just been drilled into her to fake smiles for so long that she can't help but crave them for real from others.

~~~~~~~  
  
She's nervous and comfortable all at the same time. Anticipation does that to her. The pounding in her head that has been plaguing her, dragging her from sleep and everything else, quiets at his touch. She leans into it, eyes closed, relishing the tension being almost lifted off her. Pushed. Like a rake through stones.  
  
_I love you_, echoes in her head amidst the near-tears at her relief.  
  
It's stupid. It's temporary. But she doesn't care. She's not saying it, anyways.  
  
When it comes time to turn over, Betty braces her breasts and squishes down, sort of hoping he'll initiate the conversation. Maybe he senses her gaze, because as he's rubbing her stiff joints he rolls off a smile. "So, Betty, are we going to talk today or are you gonna let me hang out in the chaos of my own mind?"  
  
Well she certainly doesn't want to bask in the chaos of hers. "What's the most beautiful drive you've ever been on?"  
  
He laughs - a low, rumbling thing, and a jolt of pride shoots through her. She'd looked up questions before their session...just in case.  
  
He tells her about driving to see his sister out-of-state, how she, being quite a bit younger, had insisted on seeing something called a Duck Parade where statues of ducks were positioned throughout some small town on a big lake and then during the festival, hundreds of rubber ducks were released. They scooped two up as souvenirs and take pictures of them on fictional adventures all the time.  
  
"Do you write about them? The duck adventures?"  
  
"No," he scoffs, his cheeks coloring as his eyes dart off to the side. "That's...just a silly game my sister and I play."  
  
"It'd make a good children's book," she muses, already imagining watercolor ducks with eccentric personalities. "Playful and sweet. You might even be able to make it a series."  
  
"Maybe. And you, Betty? Any ducks catch your eye?"  
  
Feeling a little fluttery, she recounts the tale of her post-graduation camping trip with Archie. They'd slept under the stars and everything looked so clear, so infinite. She's never felt smaller and somehow it was so inspiring, the whole universe before them.  
  
"So this Archie, are you and him still close?"  
  
"Yeah." She chews on the corner of her lip, not sure how to answer that. "But, um, not as close as we used to be." Right now she’s freezing him out a little, which hasn't been unheard of in their relationship, but it’s still upsetting because she does genuinely _like _Archie and wishes there were easier ways to deal with his stubbornness. "Archie's helping his girlfriend run for mayor."  
  
"Really?" Jughead's voice takes on an unusual, careful quality. "Must be a supportive guy."  
  
"When the mood strikes him, yeah," she sighs. "The whole thing just kinda...stresses me out."  
  
"Good thing you have me, then."  
  
"Yeah." She smiles softly, getting sleepy. "Good thing."  
  
~~~~~~~  
  
This time she doodles some ducks on the comment card and Jughead squeezes her shoulder goodbye instead of her hand.  
  
"How's your head? Physically?" Cheryl asks, clearly not paying attention and lulled into complacency by her own attentions.  
  
"Great. I'm feeling great," she says, and she does.  
  
~~~~~~~  
  
When the time comes for making a wishlist for presents, Betty can't handle any more homemade jewelry or expensive dinners, so she requests a massage membership at Serpentine Spa. Polly and Cheryl are only too happy to oblige.  
  
For the first time, she makes an appointment by herself, feeling shy and excited when she asks, "Is Jughead available?"  
  
The next time he sees her, it's with a big smile and a piece of chocolate. "Hello, Member Betty. Seems you've drunk the Right-Aid and joined the Serpentine family."  
  
"Guess so." She smiles, stretching her sleeves down over her palms. "I figured I'm already tied to Cheryl. How much more intense can it get?"  
  
She almost gets it–the full smile. "My friend Toni is her massage therapist." Quirking an eyebrow, Betty anticipates the details of how anyone can get her dominating cousin to relax. "I know nothing other than her name," he lies, ushering her into their room. _Their room_. She chides herself at the thought. It's his. The spa's.  
  
"Do you talk about us? The clients, I mean," she asks, twisting her hair into a low ponytail.  
  
"Yeah." His silhouette leans in the doorway, propped up on one palm. It feels like...they're just two people. That he's leaning for a reason. The moment of curious regard recedes as he teases, "I might tell them about the little drawings you leave and the awful knot in your right shoulder that keeps coming back because you refuse to sleep on your back."  
  
"I–come on, who sleeps on their back?"  
  
"Heathens, clearly. I’ll convert you yet." His eyes flash, mirth fading as he pulls away. "I’ll give you a minute."  
  
~~~~  
  
Shifting onto her back, she watches him, the way he tends to her so carefully, even after all this time. "Do you really tell them about my drawings?"  
  
"Sort of." He smirks. "I showed Toni one of them. She said it was practically a photograph. JB enjoyed the ducks."  
  
"Did...you enjoy them?"  
  
"They were cute," he admits, careful about where he's looking. Maybe her neck has fat rolls at this angle. Or maybe he thinks the drawings are juvenile and he doesn't want to be rude. She lays her head flat, trying to find a place to stare at the ceiling. "I always appreciate the cash tip."  
  
A forced smile flickers but doesn't quite take root on her face. "Of course. You have to eat."  
  
"I do. Have I told you how much I love to eat?"  
  
"No? But you do realize all humans need to eat, right?"  
  
"Yes, but I am the king of food consumption amidst my friends," he brags, rotating her wrist. It's easy, falling into conversation and laxness until she's submerged in new, molten energy.  
  
When she leaves this time, she draws him a burger throne and french fry crown. It's stupid, she thinks morosely, but she leaves it on there anyway. She likes drawing them.  
  
~~~~~  
  
Now that she's a member, she gets massage rating requests. They want her to review the services. Normally she hates doing that sort of thing, especially because she's seen what the negative ones can do to an establishment, how people wield opinions like weapons to try and abuse the staff. But she figures if she can take a few extra minutes wasting Jughead's time by drawing little memories on each comment card, she can click the 5/5 stars and write a favorable review. It's tangible, direct, and complimentary. Professional courtesy.  
  
~~~~~  
  
She's never had a problem before, but apparently Jughead is booked through the week.  
  
"It appears you haven't tried any of our other massage therapistss. I promise, they're all wonderfully trained."  
  
"Just do it," Cheryl scowls, glancing up from her desk. "You promised we'd go to lunch. It's not my fault you haven't set up a regular schedule with your guy. Plus, don't you only have like a week left to get your massage this month?"  
  
"Okay," she sighs. "Um, but if he opens up, you'll–"  
  
"We'll put you with Malachai at 1. We'll see you then!"  
  
Malachai is distinctly different from Jughead. She knew he would be _different_, but this guy wears a dulled, wide grin that's almost garish when combined with his tousled locks and voice edged with mirth. He takes her hand in a clap and tugs just as she notices a slightly worrying skull tattoo on the inside of his wrist. "Betty? Cool cool. This way, Betty."  
  
They make a different turn than the one she's used to so she swivels, looking around for Cheryl or...something.  
  
"Your room, m'lady."  
  
It's almost like Malachai is making fun of her, but clearly he's not stupid enough to insult a client. Maybe he just really enjoys everything. Or maybe he's stoned out of his mind. He doesn't smell like pot, but she supposes the essential oils sprinkled through the place may cover that sort of thing up.  
  
The massage itself starts off rough. His hands are more calloused than Jughead’s, his movements focused on kneading with hard pressure rather than stroking with medium pressure. The comparison to a guy who's learned his sex moves from porn comes to mind. She wants to tell him to ease up but doesn't want them to get off on the wrong foot with a critique. So she winces and readjusts until he finally asks, "How do you like it?"  
  
"Um, softer, please?"  
  
"Gotcha."  
  
He adjusts, but not enough, and gradually the pressure increases again. The movements are more erratic, sometimes uneven, although they are thorough. She's not sure if she likes it. They probably have set routines for this kind of thing. Maybe it's just personal flair, like the braided necklace this guy wears.  
  
"So, Betty, what do you do?"  
  
"I, um, I work in editing."  
  
"Editing what?"  
  
She can feel the beads of tension start trickling back inside of her at the mention of her work. "Sorry, I don't like to talk about my job. Especially while I'm...indisposed."  
  
"Ah. That's cool. My buddy Charlie used to work in editing."  
  
She barely contributes to the conversation, but he still manages to keep it going all the way until it's time to flip. It's not like he peeks, although he does flash her a smirk as she resettles.  
  
"It's good that you know how to relax. Some people just aren't built it for it."  
  
"Yeah?" She chuckles, glancing at him nervously every few seconds for the next errant thought that crosses his mind. He prods her for random anecdotes and responses and she tries to be as vague as possible, redirecting the questions back at him so she can tune out his rants on herbal medicines and music festivals and the beauty of chaos and the human body and just try to enjoy her massage. It's...all right. She does ask for lighter pressure a few times, and he usually complies for at least a few minutes at a time.  
  
At the end, it feels like he's tracing a barbed crown on her forehead with his thumbs. It's not _bad_, but it's not what she's expecting, and maybe that's what has her so flustered. Sure, the tension's going somewhere, but it's much less directed. She doesn't know where it's going, which makes her feel like it could still be there.  
  
"All right, Betty, you're all set. I'll meet you outside with some refreshment."  
  
"Thanks," she manages, and feels more exhausted than sleepy as she puts her things together. She glances at the little station he has in the corner. Some weird, colorful statues, a mini cactus. No comment cards. She wouldn't know what to say if there were any. What would she even draw? A skull with music notes? Betty leaves his tip at the front desk and is fairly certain she manages to smile instead of wince when he touches the lower part of her back in parting. He did just massage her for the better part of an hour. It shouldn't be weird, but it sets her on edge nonetheless.  
  
Maybe the drawings take up more time than she realizes, because for once she's out before Cheryl is. She's too frazzled to really drink her water, so she sits by the mini waterfall and just kind of stares into the void, assuming her cousin will be right along.  
  
"Thanks. Glad to hear I lived up to the hype. Enjoy the rest of your day," a familiar voice says, and Betty turns so fast she might as well dislocate her neck like an owl.  
  
Jughead's reserved smile twitches when he catches sight of her. He straightens, checking something with the front desk attendant who isn't helping his previous client. Heated whispers and glances in her direction all clear pathways of flames on the inside of her body. Is this a betrayal? Is he upset with her?  
  
The thought sends her to her feet, slightly light-headed as she moves towards him. "Hi." Her voice feels higher than natural.  
  
"Betty." His tone is flat, guarded. "I didn't...expect to see you here today."  
  
"Apparently you're booked solid," she offers, wincing something like a smile. "They set me with Malachai instead."  
  
"Mal? Are you–" It seems like it takes concentrated effort for him to turn away from the attendant with a half-smile in place. He gently ushers Betty by the shoulder to somewhere more private amidst the curtains and salt rocks. "I'm sorry about getting stuck with Malachai. I would've...if I'd known–"  
  
"You can't control your bookings. Besides, it's a good thing, right? Being popular. Healing people. I bet you don't want to be stuck with plain old me and my headaches all the time."  
  
"Betty..." He frowns, almost like he's torn between candor and professionalism. "The reason I got so booked up this week was because of your review."  
  
"_Oh_." She laughs, startled. "Guess I kinda shot myself in the foot with that one. Congratulations, Jughead. You deserve it. Every word...and tip."  
  
He struggles over a response, reaching out like he's going to touch her shoulder before retreating and settling his hand on the back of his neck. "You're...still, I'm sorry that I missed you. I always look forward to your appointments."  
  
Hope blooms unrealistically large in her chest. "Really?"  
  
"Yeah."  
  
He probably says that to all of his clients. Especially ones who leave nice reviews. "Well. Obviously, I look forward to them too."  
  
Weight shifting, he glances around the room. "Is there...is there a time or a day you think we could schedule our appointments regularly? I know your visits usually coincide with Cheryl's. Maybe...?"  
  
He wants a regular client, obviously. "Sure. That's fine. Yeah. We, um, we can work something out."  
  
"Come on," he insists, hand on her shoulder. "Let's take care of that right now."  
  
"Before the hoards of adoring fans come in?" She grins, unable to help herself.  
  
"Yeah and before I have to undo whatever ridiculous mojo Mal would try to use for your headaches."  
  
"I thought you're all highly trained and recommended?"  
  
Barely suppressing an eye roll, Jughead rubs her shoulder. Even the light, friendly touch makes her want to close her eyes and savor the relief it brings. He must sense it, because his fingers dig with purpose, gaze hyper-unfocused somewhere in the realm of her chin. He's so..._comforting_ that she almost leans into him.  
  
"Jones, you have a phone call in the back," the front desk attendant calls pleasantly.  
  
Clearly there has been no phone call, and both him and Betty look at each other before stepping apart.  
  
"Okay, that mini-shoulder rub was on the house," he teases. "Don't forget–"  
  
"Get myself on your schedule. Got it."  
  
"Good." It's almost like he's dazed, hovering, but before he can say anything else they call for him again. "I'll see you around, Betty."  
  
"Yes. You will."


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Y'all voted for one big hunk of a chapter instead of two tiny ones so I hope you enjoy it!
> 
> Please do leave your thoughts as I may eventually turn this concept into a longer, original work based on the loveliness of your response to the first chapter. Your kindness and suggestions inspire me both within bughead and as a champion of love in general. All right. Enough sappiness from me. Thank you for reading!

Jughead's grin is almost three quarters of his face the next time she comes in. "Betty. We meet again." The attendant at the front desk rolls their eyes at that. Betty's ushered out of sight and into Jughead’s familiarity pretty quickly.  
  
They go back to _their _room and she swears his eyes twinkle with the candlelight. They go through the motions until she’s back on the table and he’s oiling up his hands. "So...was there anything Malachai did that you liked?"  
  
"Um...no?"  
  
"Really?" he sounds bizarrely pleased. "Nothing at all you prefer?"  
  
"Juggie, you don't have to tear him down to build yourself up. You're my..." _fella_, she almost says. "Preference. But I am ready to try new moves or techniques if you want to switch it up."  
  
"New moves?"  
  
"If you have any - or is this the patented Jughead Jones relaxation technique? Because that works for me so far."  
  
"Oh, I have moves, Betts." He swipes the heated, wet towel across her back, the rough texture reminiscent of clearing a canvas. "I just wasn't sure you could handle them."  
  
"Try me."  
  
The new nickname-basis has her tingling with anticipation. His hands do move in new patterns, circling and digging between her ribs and along her spine in a way that even makes her toes tingle.  
  
"How are you doing?"  
  
"Good."  
  
"Anything more specific? You like this more? Less?"  
  
"I like anything that you do." She shifts, not sure how much she should say. "I like the neck rubs the best, but everything is good."  
  
"I'll keep that in mind."  
  
They're quiet for a little while until she turns over, their gazes meeting for a shy, "Hi," that makes her heart buoy amidst the calm.  
  
At the end, his hands linger on her neck. She takes a deep breath and smiles at him. This time she can see his face, upside down, smirking back at her.  
  
"Everything good?"  
  
"Yeah."  
  
"Good. I'm really glad I got to see you this week."  
  
"Me too."  
  
She breathes deeply, wishing his hands could dip lower than her shoulders and slide across her chest. The soft oils would help him glide the path she wants so easily, his hands large enough to cup a breast in each hand. The sensual thought overwhelms and embarrasses her. As she tries to rid herself of it, he tilts his neck, just enough for her to imagine what it'd be like to sit up and kiss him.  
  
_Been reading too many romance novels_, she blushes, determined to get Polly to stop sending her ones with “_hot ;)_” or fire emojis as the review.  
  
Shuddering just a little, she manages to free herself of the dirty thoughts, readjusting to the natural soft glow of the room.  
  
His thumb traces a small circle on her shoulder without any pressure. "You sure you're okay? You seem...unsettled."  
  
"I just...never want this to end."  
  
The smirk takes up half his face, an enigmatic crescent moon.  
  
"I bet you get that a lot." Her chuckle is breathy, half-hearted at best.  
  
"Never get tired of hearing it though. You should say it more often."  
  
Nervous, she kicks her toes under the blanket. "Maybe I should write it in my next review."  
  
"Maybe you should. ‘Jughead Jones is amazing and I never want to leave him.’"  
  
There are a few more seconds of companionable smiles. The warmth stays with her longer this time and she thinks of the infinity symbol she'd drawn over open palms on his comment card. She texts Polly asking about healing touch.  
  
Within 24 hours she regrets reaching out. She’s bombarded with texts about believers and zen and that her aura has been more pink lately. Cheryl tells her it's her own damn fault for opening her mouth.  
  
~~~~~~  
  
"Yes, that feels good." Betty smiles, Jughead's fingertips dragging a rotation along her neck. She's beaming, and if she tilts her head just enough she can catch a glimpse of his smile. But she won't, because that's weird.  
  
"So I know the neck is your favorite," he teases, thumb stroking a little harder. "But out of curiosity, where's your least favorite place to get massaged?"  
  
The buzz from her spine stimulation fades. "My legs. Thighs, specifically."  
  
"Why? Do I go too hard? Or...are they sensitive?"  
  
"No, it's not that." She looks off to the side. "They're fat."  
  
The quiet that follows has the familiar pressure of ideas working themselves out.  
  
"Why do you think that?"  
  
"Because I can see it and feel it every time I go for a run. I mean, you know how they are, you've touched them every time. Jiggly, lumpy, knotted."  
  
"You have really nice legs, in my opinion. Just like anything else, they're going to have some irregularities, but I promise you all people have fat in their thighs."  
  
"Yeah, right. I bet your legs don't feel that way." The lean outline of his soft pants tempts her gaze.  
  
"I'd like to think we're different body types, but I have my weirdness. Even your cousin Cheryl has some fat on their thighs, I promise. It doesn't mean they're unhealthy or that they're not beautiful."  
  
A stinging sensation tags at her heart. "Um, how do you know? Have you done her?"  
  
"...Cheryl?" She nods. "No. Right away, the front desk knew to put her with someone who has a lot of–" He stops himself, clearly stuck.  
  
"Go on; say it. I'm not going to tell."  
  
He rubs her earlobes as a tease. "You promise?"  
  
"Yes." She wriggles against his touch, grinning and resettling.  
  
"Patience. It seems like it's working out. They have a long standing appointment. _Regular_."  
  
"So why did they put me with you?"  
  
"Probably because _you_ have a lot of patience." She laughs, tilting her head back to look at him. What should be a view up his nostrils is actually nice, his expression soft. "Next time you come in I'm going to do a full hour on your thighs just so you celebrate them as much as when I touch your neck."  
  
"Don't."  
  
"You're mine for an hour. I'll convert you if I have to."  
  
_Mine_, she breathes.  
  
She turns her head to hide a blush and dissipate the tension. "You’re starting to sound like Cheryl. She threatened to tie me to this table the first time I came in, and that's what you'd have to do to get me to endure an hour of thigh massages."  
  
"I'll keep that in mind," he muses, thumbs kneading gently at her throat.  
  
~~~~~  
  
Still tense from a phone call with a source, Betty doesn't even blink at the unknown number on her screen before answering it.  
  
"Hey, Betty? It's Jughead, from the spa." Dumbfounded, she freezes. "I hope I'm not prying by calling your number. We um–we have them on file. I was just...I was wondering if you were unhappy with my service in any way? I'm sorry if I made you uncomfortable or, I don't know, if it wasn't enjoyable."  
  
She can hear a shuffling in the background, maybe clothing? Linens? Swallowing a thick lump in her throat, she tries not to picture him taking things off. Even imagining him putting them on gets her heart rate going a little too high.  
  
"No! Of course not." She swivels, trying to avoid Cheryl's absently curious gaze from across the room. "You know I basically can't function without your…appointments. I'm...sick. I wanted to call and reschedule once I'm better. Hopefully, in a few days. I promise, I'm not just ditching our date."  
  
_Date?!_  
  
He chuckles to himself and the relief is almost palpable. "I'm sorry to hear you're not feeling well. Anything I can do to make it better?"  
  
"Um..." She bites her lip, aware that Cheryl is now in full-on scheming mode, eyes practically gleaming black across the room. "No, it's just...it's a thing. It happens a lot; it'll just be a couple of days."  
  
"What kind of thing?"  
  
"A...stomach issue."  
  
_Oh my god_, she recoils. He's going to think she has diarrhea.  
  
"You know..." The shuffling noise of fabric interrupts again. "We haven't done stomach massages, but they are helpful for digestion. I could..._help_, if you want."  
  
"I couldn't–no, it's not–" She takes a deep breath, willing herself not to die. She does not want to talk about this with him. Not in their first outside-of-the-spa conversation.  
  
"What?" _No_. _Don't tell him_. "What is it, Betts?" She can hear his smile, and takes a deep breath, squeezing her eyes shut and hoping nothing comes out of her mouth. "You can trust me. What?"  
  
"I...have my period."  
  
There's silence on the other end for what feels like a startled eternity.

Normally, she's regular. It's never coincided with one of their sessions. Maybe all her completely inappropriate thoughts about the only man who's touched her in a good way the last six months are wreaking havoc on her hormones.  
  
"That's all?" She _hears_ the half-smile. It's like an old friend. She desperately longs for it above her, his voice cushioned in a small, intimate room instead of pitched high on a tiny speaker. "Sorry, I don't mean–I know it's painful, it's not...nothing, but um...I can...I can help with that."  
  
"Won't I get the sheets dirty?" she balks. Even with a tampon or wearing her undergarments with a pad, she can't imagine relaxing long enough to enjoy anything. The pressure on her back would probably squeeze out something unpleasant no matter how gentle he is.  
  
Jughead's chuckle is more careening and nervous. A few sharp breaths puff on the speaker before he suggests, "I mean, we wash them every time. But if you're nervous, I can bring a couple spare towels, or one of your own from home if you want. I don't mind. It's just...natural. It's no reason why you can't get a massage. In fact, it's more reason, because you need the tension relief."  
  
Tucking her frown behind her shoulder, Betty turns her head. Cheryl’s caught up in her own new phone call, but still checking in. "I don't know. I usually spend my period in sweatpants with a heating pad pressed to my belly."  
  
"Let my hands be your heating pad, Betty."  
  
With a big sigh, she gives in. "You must really need tips this week, huh?"  
  
"We all have our needs," he says with a soft undertone she hopes is fondness. "Mine are cartoon drawings with a cash bonus."  
  
~~~~~~~~  
  
She's trembling like a leaf when she goes in.  
  
"Betty." He grins, although she misses by what fraction because of how quickly he takes her things for her, ushering her towards the room. "As a holistic spa, I am pleased to tell you that we do offer tea. I recommend it for your current ailment."  
  
"I can't believe you've been holding out on me. Which flavor?" she asks, smoothing her ponytail with a twist. Her hair feels nice today, soothing, even if the rest of her feels like cramping garbage.  
  
"Whatever you like. As long as it's peach, jasmine, or sleepy thyme. I don't recommend the sleepy one, otherwise you might miss out on the magic," he teases, gently flattening the towel she brought from home just below where he's placed a few of his own.  
  
"God, it's like we're preparing for surgery." She stretches her palms to get rid of built-up tension. To her surprise, he seems totally relaxed, humming good-naturedly in response as he gets everything ready. "Wait–I thought you said you didn't like blood?"  
  
Elbow joints stuttering, Jughead frowns at the table. "I don't. But it's not like...surprise blood. Technically, you're not injured. It's just...there. I’m not even touching it."  
  
Pursing her lips, she's not sure what to make of that, only that she loves the confused little frown on his face, like he's never thought of it before this second - like maybe it _is_ surprise blood to some extent.  
  
"All right, Betts, what flavor tea will it be?" He clears his throat, decidedly not making eye contact.  
  
"Peach, please."  
  
"Great. Be right back."  
  
She's wearing black panties, a pad and a tampon for good measure. She'd even considered using one of those diva cups that Polly's always on about (apparently they save _so much_ in waste) but the thought of trying out a new menstrual product that may overspill around her longtime crush wasn't exactly reassuring. She shifts the fuzzy towels beneath her. His linens are much softer than hers. Even though they feel better, she'd hate to get blood on them, so she drags up her ratty brown one from five years ago and lays on top of it. The sheets are still warm. She wonders if he was right about this being better than a heating pad.  
  
A soft knock sounds just before he opens the door. It reminds her of a heartbeat for no other reason than it signals life - and possibly the person she associates with her heart in general.  
  
Which is stupid, she reminds herself, because he just likes having a steady client.  
  
Jughead carefully places a steaming mug on his little counter booth. "It's hot, like, burn-your-fingers hot, but it should be cool enough to drink by the time we get to your front."  
  
"Thank you."  
  
"You're welcome." He clears his throat, quickly starting the process. Even though the pressure aches in her lower back, he's constantly checking on her, soothing her.  
  
"Um..." He hesitates, and she knows this is the part she turns over. "Maybe I didn't think this tea thing through. We could...prop you up on the towels?"  
  
"Am I allowed to sit up?" Jughead's pupils dilate and she wonders if he thinks she’s gone unhinged. "I mean, we have the extra towels, I could just hold one to my chest."  
  
Wordlessly, he helps her tug the towels up and hands her the mug. Just his flickering gaze is enough to ask_, is it okay?_ before she makes an _mmm_ sound and smiles. "Thank you."  
  
It's different, sitting up. He's not able to reach her armpit as easily, but she doesn't mind. She even jokes he can keep doing her back or just focus on her fingers for the time being while fruity warmth tickles her aching insides.  
  
"I've never gotten to look at you this long before," she muses, a smile ghosting on Jughead's lips.  
  
"Sorry for the inconvenience."  
  
"No, I like it." There's a moment of quiet, in which she tries not to feel branded by his gaze. Needing relief, she wets her tongue with heat. "Tell me about your tattoos."  
  
"Which ones?"  
  
"How many do you have?" She cranes her neck as if it'll give her x-ray vision through his torso and into his skin.  
  
"Three," he says carefully, like he can't quite remember.  
  
Maybe that's a lot? Not wanting to appear naive, she nods. "Your shirt covers them most of the time. I think I see black wings, but I'm not sure what kind. And then of course you have the arrow..." She traces the line on his forearm without even thinking.  
  
They're certainly no strangers to physical contact, but the intimacy of an innocent touch to his arm strikes her off-guard. Trembling, she's fairly certain his gaze is slowly burning off a layer of her skin. He probably thinks she's insane or attention-starved to just go around touching people. "Sorry. Did you...lace this tea with something?"  
  
Subtly, he shakes his head, the smallest curve to his mouth. "It's okay; you can touch me."  
  
"Polly sometimes gives me these herbal supplements and I swear..." She clears her throat. "Anyway, I think the arrow often means moving forward and strength, but I'm curious why yours is only barbed on one side."  
  
It's difficult to pull herself out of the haze of embarrassment but she does catch his honest answer. "My life has never really been a straight path. A broken arrow signifies peace."  
  
"But it's not broken. It's just incomplete."  
  
His smirk tells her she's hit the jackpot. "Oh." The warm peachiness of the tea punches the back of her throat. "I mean, I guess it's rare for any of us to be truly at peace. Polly says she's _actualized_, but I think that's just code for indoctrinated. Cheryl sort of...embraces the chaos."  
  
"And you?"  
  
"I don't know. I feel at peace when I can let go of everything else. Like here."  
  
The strokes of his thumbs fan across her skin, warming it.

She sets down her empty cup. "What kind of tattoo would you recommend for me?"

He considers, sauntering behind her. A thumb and forefinger lightly pinch the flesh near her neck. "Here. A water lily, the lotus blossom."  
  
It strikes her as pretty, but random. "Why?"  
  
"They bloom in murky waters, and your thoughts..." He trails off, palm still against her back. "You have this innate goodness despite whatever else is going on. The lotus symbolizes the search for peace and balance. Plus, it'd mark one of your favorite spots to be rubbed. I think it'd bring you luck."  
  
Shoulders warm, Betty watches him carefully. "Maybe I will, then."  
  
A smirk crawls up his face (75%, she thinks). "You will? What? Get a tattoo? Just 'cause I said so?"  
  
"You haven't steered me wrong yet."  
  
"There's a first time for everything." A heaviness permeates the air, one she's not quite sure what to make of.  
  
The towels form a makeshift bikini, and for the first time she actually feels cold, her whole upper half exposed.  
  
"I'll warm you up, just a second," he insists, grabbing fresh warm towels to blanket her arms in. She's grinning so wildly at his consideration that she wishes she had a towel to hide her face.  
  
"Thank you."  
  
"No problem." He smirks, re-oiling up and spreading his hands along the chilled, swollen section of her belly. Slow, circular movements draw her senses into an odd, almost-Nirvana. She's still bleeding, but the pain seems to be pushed thin to the point that she can barely feel it anymore, just a dull leftover ache. Not bad, considering her insides are ripping themselves apart.  
  
_I love you_, she thinks again, humming happily. "It feels good. You never do me wrong."  
  
Her words must surprise him, because his fingertips slip to the edge of her panties. "S-sorry. Is that too low?"  
  
If he only knew... "No. I trust you. You can touch me anywhere you want."  
  
Chest strained with the implication, she wonders if she should take it back. She waits, listening as he inhales through his nose and exhales through his mouth, trying to match his pacing. His eyes stay laser-focused on the edge of her waist. She wishes he'd look at her, make a joke, _something_. But he just keeps breathing, his hands rolling in a circular motion. He must get comments like this all the time, ones that border on unprofessional.  
  
"Sorry. You know what I meant," she blunders.  
  
He doesn't say anything, her anxiety skyrocketing, but before it can hit full crisis-mode his hands slide up her ribcage to the edge of her makeshift bikini top.  
  
His voice is low, gravelly when he asks, "Good?" How can a single syllable sound so sexy?  
  
"Yeah."  
  
Her back arches instinctively, egging on the current slew of motions happening on her body. His fingertips edge just under where she's covered, but they don't quite touch anything that's hidden underneath, no matter how much she wants them to. He focuses on alleviating the pressure from her cramps, her body tingling with a selfish cry for more.  
  
"We'd better get back to your neck." He clears his throat, drawing the warm sheet back over her until she's covered. For the first time, it feels a little like she's being hidden. "Can't neglect your favorite part."  
  
_You're_ my favorite part, her heart keens. "No...no thighs today then?"  
  
"No. Although I might do your temples if we have the time."  
  
"You're taking it easy on me, huh?"  
  
"You have no idea," he grumbles, kneading a little rougher.  
  
She's so distracted for the rest of the session that she barely registers when it's over, his thumbs gently curving down the lines in her neck. When he leaves, she sits up, trying to calm her racing heartbeat. She's not a teenager. She should be able to control herself. But it's hard with the soft lighting, the nice warm sheets, his gentle touch. She squeezes her thighs together to stop the onslaught of ridiculous thoughts, but the resulting cramps only remind her of why they're not a great thoughts to be having right now.  
  
The lotus blossom she draws on his comment card has an arrow through it, _his_ arrow. It's hard to tell if it's breaking the flower apart or holding it together. It's penetrating.  
  
This one...this one she shouldn't give him. Before she can crumple it up, she hears a soft knock at the door. No one's ever knocked at the end of a session. "Yes?" she asks timidly.  
  
Jughead comes in, head down and his hand behind his back. "Hey. Um, you can still take your time, I just wanted to give you this. We've been together...working together for six months and I thought I ought to...honor it somehow."  
  
Shocked, she takes the book from his hand. _Beloved_. A new copy.  
  
"I know you said your old one was barely held together by tape, so I figured it might come in handy." He shrugs almost bashfully, eyes averted and cheeks rosy. "That's why I was such a pest about getting to see you."  
  
"It's our anniversary?" she repeats dumbly.  
  
"Um, yeah." His lopsided smile brightens the whole room.  
  
"You got me..." Words fail her. "_Jughead_." She throws her arms around him in a tight embrace. After the initial wave of impact, his arms loop around her as well.  
  
_I love you_, she wants to say again, clutching him tighter. He smells good. Not just from the oils, but like an actual person. _Hers_. She wants to feel this way forever.  
  
"Don't get all emotional on me," he teases, mouth pressing to the top of her ear. "It's just a book."  
  
"But I...I didn't get you anything," she realizes, pulling back to look up at his satisfied face.  
  
"What's this? Another comment card? Exactly what I wanted!" Before she can protest, he plucks it from the stand, still keeping her pressed against him with one arm. Expression inscrutable, he studies it. "It's...the lotus blossom. And my arrow. You drew us together, Betts."  
  
"I...I did." Terrified, she bites her lip. "I'm sorry. I was going to throw it away–"  
  
"Don't you dare," he insists, lips coming down on her forehead. A wave of adrenaline threatens to buckle her knees so she leans into him.  
  
They squeeze together until there's no room between them. Her whole body feels like it's vibrating. He _kissed_ her. Her forehead, but still...a kiss! He lets out a small laugh. "Come to think of it, that was on your first comment card too. You and me, together."  
  
"Yeah." She blushes, burying her nose into his shirt. She can almost feel the steady thrum of his pulse against her lips.  
  
"It might be my favorite yet."  
  
_This can't be real_, she thinks, looking up to meet his quiet gaze. She can feel him waiting for her, his arms casually keeping her close.  
  
_I love you_, she thinks again, her gaze dropping to his mouth. "Juggie, I...I’m sorry if it’s unprofessional, but I really...I like the idea of the two of us together." She swallows against the awkwardness of the intensity of his gaze. Her voice drops down to nothing more than a whisper. “I like you.”  
  
Jughead leans, one hand cupping the side of her face. The thrill of anticipation has her on her tip-toes, arching her face towards his. Like his touch, his kiss is gentle, just the right amount of pressure. _Yes_, she thinks, energy flowing through her at an alarming rate, lips moving to keep time with the beat of her heart as her free hand manages to work into his shirt, pulling and keeping him against her.  
  
"Betty," he whispers, forehead pushing against hers. She's not sure if there's any more to that thought because he descends on her again, their bodies swaying slightly with the give and take. A moan slides out as she gets a taste of his tongue, his palm sliding lower on her tailbone.  
  
"Shit," he hisses, pulling away.  
  
"What?"  
  
Her heart's pounding. _Please don't say this is a mistake_.  
  
"They're just–we probably shouldn’t be doing this _here._" He shoves his forehead against hers like he's looking for grounding, his eyes shut tight.  
  
"I...I understand. I should probably go. I just–thank you. For everything. For being so sweet, for..." Her thoughts trail off as he opens his eyes, heated gaze fixed on hers. They lose themselves again to open, mouthy kisses, his hands trailing her ribs and leaving a burn even over her shirt.  
  
_For giving me peace_, she wants to finish.  
  
"Next time," he promises, finally finding the will to disentangle so their lips are no longer sealed together. "We will celebrate properly. Can I call you? Or...should I wait until your next appointment?"  
  
"Whatever you want. I'm...I'm happy to hear from you."  
  
They exchange one last chaste kiss before heading back out to the lobby. She feels the phantom warmth of his touch for the rest of the day.  
  
~~~~~~~~~

It’s about 7 o’clock when Betty's phone chimes with a text notification.

“Hey Betts, this is my cell phone. Just wanted to send you a text and wish you a happy anniversary again ;)”

Heart fluttering like she's a teenager, Betty quickly types, “Happy anniversary, Juggie! 💘 so when should we plan on having dinner to celebrate?”

“As soon as possible. Like, right now if you're willing.”

They quickly decide on Chinese food and staying in, declaring they'll go out when she's feeling better and he's not leaving straight from work. Betty texts him her address, swipes some fresh deodorant on, and pops some painkillers. Generally, she tries to get comfortable and relaxed so she can enjoy his company on a different level after months of pining. He's usually seen her in a towel, so she figures he doesn't care if she dresses up. Still, she wants to look _good._

His familiar little rap on the door makes her heart rate jump, knees nearly buckling as she runs to let him in. “Miss me?” He grins, and she'll be damned if it's not the entirety of his brilliant smile.

Shyness pretty much evaporated just by the fact that he's _here, _Betty wraps her hands around him and kisses him. It's mostly teeth because of their smiles, but it's still wonderful. She only remembers where they are when she feels the ridge of the takeout bag pressed against her ass as he wraps his arms around her to hold her in the enthusiastic greeting.

Too happy to be embarrassed, she pushes the door open again with her foot. “Come in!”

They hold hands even though he's barely able to hang onto the takeout, both of them trying to grab more of _each other. _Once they've dropped the food off, Betty walks backwards to lead him into her life. His gaze doesn't leave her face; he’s barely even aware of their surroundings. This is more than she could have even hoped for.

There’s a brief tour, just walking through the open-concept kitchen/living room and a gesture to the bedroom and bathroom. Settling on the couch with him to eat Chinese food feels oddly natural.

“How was the rest of your shift?”

“Woefully less exciting.” He snaps his chopsticks with playful familiarity, sneaking a wonton off her plate after an affectionate kiss on the cheek. It’s nice to have someone to play with and _off _of like this. It’s wonderful that it’s Jughead: the guy who makes her at ease whether his hands are on her or not.

They fall into the comforts of dinner and a movie, Betty barely conscientious of what's on the screen once his fingers creep along the back of the couch and find their place on the back of her neck. She struggles against fluttering her eyes closed and begging to be touched more.

As it is, Jughead keeps trying to study her out of the corner of his eye.

When he catches her looking, he grins. “You can just...look at me. If you're bored with the movie, that is.”

“I'm not bored.”

“Really?”

Her heartbeat quickens at the mischievous glint in his eye. He leans in slowly enough that they can chase each other's smiles. His lips are so soft against hers, slightly salty from soy sauce and onions, but tempting nonetheless. They kiss languidly, luxuriously, and she tries to breathe all of him in. Until today, she’s never been so close to him, allowed to look and taste and touch.

She caresses along his jaw and into the inky tendrils under his beanie. Something about her nails against his scalp changes things. He drags her into his lap as teeth come in to play. He has some kind of magnetic pull over her, guiding with a natural energy. She doesn't know what it is and doesn't care, most of her thoughts straying in favor of sensation.

But along with her want comes a painful reminder that her body has chosen to betray her today.

“Juggie – as much as I want to keep kissing you, if you keep getting me worked up, I...well, it's kind of painful and it’s also tempting, so...”

“Tell me about it.” His eyes dilate, searching her face in wistful desire. “Sorry. Obviously we’re not on the same level of pain, so...maybe I should take a walk. Besides, I think...I think we should really date. Get to know each other outside of an hour a week in some zen studio.”

“Would I have to give you up as my massage therapist?” She grins, leaning in close to his face until his eyes nearly cross. The ability to make him look even a semblance off-balance makes her thrum with glee.

“No. I’m not giving up those comment cards. But does _dating_ sound...enjoyable to you?”

She feels the heat of his fingers through her clothes, burning into her hips. “Yes.”

Adam’s apple bobbing, his glance flickers to her lips. “Better get to that walk then.”

“I’ll go with you.”

They hold hands, idly chatting as they make their way to the park. She points out her favorite trees and spots, blushing when he gets a goofy expression on his face. “What?”

“You're just...cute when you get all excited.”

“I am not _cute_.”

“You are. You're a lot of other things, but cute is one of them.” She tries not to pout, looking at the path ahead. He squeezes her hand. “You're a muse. Beyond a Hitchcock blonde.”

“But if you’re the person inspiring me, doesn’t that make you the muse?”

He looks dubious, almost affronted. “What the hell do I inspire?”

“Comfort, comment cards, intellectual discussion, _peace_.” He snorts a little laugh, the curl of his mouth drawing her closer to his side. “Plus...I don’t know. You always seem to make me smile.”

He regards her with a smidgeon of bemused self-deprecation. “That’s because I’m so funny looking.”

She rolls her eyes. “It’s because of a lot of reasons and you’re gorgeous, so don’t even…” His eyes sparkle with delight. “So what about me? What do I inspire?”

“Fishing for compliments, huh? All right.” He squints, pretending to look off into the distance. “I assume you mean _besides_ dirty dreams…”

“_Jughead_!”

“All right! All right! You inspire...motivation. Happy thoughts. Hope.” At first, she thinks he’s teasing, but by the fond way he watches her, she thinks maybe he’s being sincere.

They smile and nudge into each other until they make their way back to her apartment where they resume snuggling and Jughead gets into his second round of Chinese food. He insists it still tastes good cold, but takes her up on her offer of tea, which helps with her cramps.

Maybe because of the tea, or maybe due to general exhaustion, she finds herself leaning onto his shoulder. Charmed, Jughead wraps an arm around her so she can nestle into his side while he tries to keep eating everything one-handed. Everything feels wonderful and domestic, which is probably why she doesn’t even realize when she falls asleep.

When he shifts against her, she starts awake, pain throbbing in her gut.

Jughead hugs her like it’s his fault she passed out on their date. “Sorry, I didn't realize it was so late. I’ll get going so you can get some rest.”

“No, no, you can stay,” she insists, leaning forward to peck him on the lips, like that can sway the fate of the evening. It’s not like he can _stay_. Well, probably not in her bed, anyway. That would be weird for a first date, even if technically they’ve known each other for months. “You can...we can stay on the couch. Or I could have some coffee, or…”

“Betts. Stop.” He kisses her forehead, her lips. “It’s fine. We’ve both had a long day. Can I...can I see you again soon?”

They hesitant hopefulness in his expression absolutely _melts_ her. “How about tomorrow?”

His smile lights up his eyes.

_I love you_.

~~~~~~~~~

She’s lost track of what date it is, her face nuzzled against his chest while he intermittently munches on popcorn. Everything’s just sort of...falling into place with him. During appointments, they may smile a bit more freely (until her cheeks ache and he teasingly rubs them out), and maybe they’ve snuck a few kisses and hand-holdings in at the spa, but for the most part they keep their blatant affection for their dates. The comment cards may have more hearts on them than is probably considered normal - sometimes she dabbles in poetry. She still hasn’t figured out a way to just _say it_.

_I love you_.

She _feels _it...a constant orbiting warmth when she’s around him. It must be radiating out of her pores at this point.

“You getting too comfy, babe?” She looks up at his soft, bemused smile. “Don’t want you falling asleep.”

“No. I’m just a little hungry.”

Eyes flashing, he sucks the salt off of his fingers. “How hungry?”

“Almost ravenous,” she teases, heart rate spiking as he shifts to lower his face to hers. The kisses are pressing, hard, like the planes of his muscles against her own. And although she likes this, his fingers trailing up the inside of her shirt, her teeth nudging against his tongue, she wants _more_.

“Juggie,” she starts, nudging him back with her nose and swinging her legs over either side of his.

The popcorn slides off to the side of the couch, haphazardly set on an end table as she lifts her shirt off above her head. She enjoys the dumbstruck expression on his face before reaching behind to unhook her bra and sling it to the same forgotten corner as her shirt. He grabs either side of her ribs, laving open-mouthed kisses on her breasts. Desire throbs between her legs. She grinds against him for friction, stroking his soft locks between her fingers just to balance out the heat until she needs _more_, her hands going lower.

“I want you,” she whispers against his neck. With a shiver, Jughead snags his shirt collar and yanks the garment over his head. She scrambles to help him, trying not to soak his lap at the sight of his uncovered, mussed hair.

The plush velvet of his lips decorates her neck, hands bracing her back to keep her close. A flurry of monosyllabic encouragement spills from her tongue, thighs tightening around him as she grinds harder. It feels like she’s _taking_ more than giving, so she leans back and tries to read his distracted, heated expression. “What do _you _want?”

Lips swollen, hair askew, he stares at her. “This.”

“This?” she repeats, confidence building.

“This,” he nods, guiding her closer for a passionate, needy kiss.

Being with him is wonderful. Maybe not _relaxing_, not when she’s gasping his name and wet with want, but it’s _comforting_ in a way she wasn’t sure another person _could _be. Just seeing him, feeling him, even hearing his voice, she knows someone else is actively involved in making sure she’s okay, in bringing a smile to her face the same way she wants to bring him one.

He pulls her tension from the inside out, until her thighs are trembling and their mouths open against each other in a silent cry.

When they’ve finished, she drags a duvet over them, trying not to shiver out of satisfaction or from the fine sheen of sweat.

“I’m really glad that they paired me with you.” She nuzzles into his shoulder, not sure if she could stop smiling, even if she wanted to.

“Are you saying you like my hands?”

“I'm saying I like all of you.” She chuckles, slapping his chest, tempted to rub the skin over his heart, wondering if there will ever be a tattoo there. “In fact-” Her pulse races as she checks for his reaction. His grip tightens around her waist, but his attention is rapt on her face, lazy pleasure evaporated into something alert and ready. “I'm saying...I love you.”

_There it is, _she thinks. The elusive full smile. It starts in his eyes, glowing like a sunrise in a blue sky.

“I love you,” she repeats, smitten. Her fingers gently catch the side of his chin. “I _love_ you. I love you…”

Eyes wet, he presses his smile into the side of her neck, holding her close and kissing her skin as she wraps herself around him. Her chant jilts amidst his happy kisses working their way up her throat, across her jaw, and over her lips.

Still relishing the impact of his mouth, she rolls the tingling sensation over her tongue. Saying she loves him feels so _good_. “I love you.”

“I love _you_.” His joy is the most beautiful thing she's ever seen - worth more contentment than a massage.

~~~~~~~

Twirling leftovers with her fork, Betty tries to keep her tone light. “You keep the comment cards I draw you, right?”

Gripping the saggy triangular slice of pizza so it keeps the grease funneled in the center, Jughead narrows his gaze on Betty. “Right.”

“I was wondering if I could borrow the lotus and arrow one. From our anniversary.”

“Oh? How come? Feeling sentimental?” He wiggles his eyebrows and takes an indulgent bite. Even his full cheeks make her happy. Giving in to an urge, she strokes his face under the guise of catching some grease.

“You could say that.”

He studies her almost suspiciously. “What would _you _say?”

She picks at her food, smiling. “I’m going to get a tattoo.” Eyes wide, he stares at her. His silence stretches on for so long that she almost laughs. “You okay?”

“You…” Twisting his neck, furrows his brow. Then, all at once, his expression blooms into miraculous joy. “You’re gonna get it?”

“Yeah.”

He drops the remainder of pizza back on his plate. “Betty, you sexy badass!”

“I hardly think a tattoo will make me a–” The rest of her sentence gets cut off with an enthusiastic tackle-hug, his lips planted firmly on her cheek, fingers dancing at her sides until she giggles.

When they go in for the appointment, her knuckles are nearly white from gripping his hand so hard.

“You don’t have to do this,” he reminds her warily. “We could just draw.”

“No, I want to. I’m just nervous.”

“I’ll kiss your pain away. Or adjacent. And then later, I’ll work some magic with my hands.”

“Promise?”

They lean forward, just a breath away from another kiss.

“Jughead? This your girl?”

Clearing his throat, Jughead strides up to the counter with Betty in tow. She feels strangely like she’s meeting a close friend or one of the family. “Yeah. She’s the one.” Her heart throbs, feeling enormous in her chest. “Fangs, this is Betty. Betty, this is Fangs.”

The guy’s eyes light up with a knowing smile. “It’s a pleasure.”

She reaches out with her free hand to shake his, gesturing to his ink and Jughead’s. “I’m a big fan of your work.”

“If I may, you make a much prettier canvas.”

Betty smiles as Jughead leans forward to mess with the sketchbook on Fangs’ desk. “Excuse you? I happen to think I’m very pretty.”

“You are,” Betty acquiesces, teasing.

“She’s way too nice for you,” Fangs says, grinning at the chiding look Jughead sends his way.

“Yeah, well she’s too nice to tell you your linework sucks and she came with her own drawing so all you have to do it trace it.”

“Thanks for the vote of confidence.”

Betty _enjoys _this back-and-forth. It’s rare she gets to observe Jughead with his friends. Once they’ve settled on the design, she pins her hair up in a bun and feels the transfer paper smooth at the base of her neck.

“You okay?” Jughead asks, worried expression knotting his brow.

“I’ll just imagine you’re trying out a new massage technique or something. Can’t be any more painful than a conversation with my mother, right?” Trying to shake her nerves, Betty watches Fangs ready the pen.

“Hey. Come here.” She sighs contentedly as Jughead’s hands find their familiar perch on her neck, gently working her knots. “You are so much stronger than the white noise. You go into this with a clear head. You’re amazing, Betty. I love you.”

“I love you.” With a quick kiss, she settles into the chair. The needling pain _isn’t _good, but Jughead lets her squeeze his hand as hard as she wants and whispers encouragement.

“You guys are really sappy,” Fangs comments dryly. “This is gonna be _long _session.”

“Shut up, Fangs.” Jughead smiles, wiping his thumb over Betty’s knuckles. “Or else we might not come back when I get my matching one.”

~~~~~~

The kiss he presses to the back of her neck makes her shiver. It’s like the tattoo is her berserk button lately. One touch and she’s putty in his hands. Jughead wraps his arms around her, squeezing just under her breasts until she’s pressed against his semi-erection.

“You’re up early,” she muses, catching his sleepy expression in the mirror.

“I’m hungry.”

“You want breakfast?”

“In a manner of speaking.” He nibbles on her shoulder.

“Juggie…”

Lazily fondling her breast, he presses a kiss to her neck. “Is that an objection?”

“No,” she admits, grinding back into him until she can feel him hard and ready. Her nipples pebble through his tank top, the outline of his hand still visible through the nearly sheer material.

“Good. Because one of the perks of being my roommate and girlfriend? Free massages.” His other hand dips under her underwear, nearly making her knees buckle in an attempt to spread her legs for his careful penetration. She lets her head roll back. “You feel good?”

She’s sure he can feel the slick at his fingers, the way she rocks needily on his hand. “_Yes_.”

“You want to come on my face, babe?”

“Oh my god, Juggie.” She groans, eyes squeezing shut.

“What?”

“It’s so early.” That doesn’t stop her hips from stuttering when he rubs his thumb rather insistently over her clit, the other hand rolling her breast so hard it aches.

“I can’t help it. Seeing you in my clothes, knowing I’ll have to touch you without being able to _touch _you later…”

She spins around, slamming into him for a kiss. Dizzied just by the idea of her body slicked up by his makes her want to fuck him into oblivion. They stumble back to the bedroom, kicking off their corresponding clothes until he’s laying back on the bed and hoisting her thighs up and over either side of his face. He’s at his laziest in the morning, which somehow makes for the best oral sex of her life, and he knows it. The flatness of his tongue laps at her until everything feels tense and sparkling.

Gradually, the desire in her gut splits her legs even further apart, Jughead’s patient hands waiting on the inside of her thighs until she feels like she’s about to split at the seams. Mercifully, he slips his fingers inside of her, the same slow strokes he uses on her back tightening her core until she snaps.

He hums in satisfaction as she cries and writhes on top of him.

Wobbly-legged, she tries to crawl back down his body, kissing his smug, sleepy face on the way. Her nipples graze his torso, making him stretch in eager anticipation. The urge to go lower has her trailing lingering kisses down his neck and chest.

“Where are you going?” He sounds pleased, intrigued. His fingers dance on the grooves of her back like he’s tempted to keep her within easy kissing distance.

“Just taking advantage of the opportunity to touch you, Juggie.”

She places the head of his dick on the flat edge of her tongue. His head falls back in a curse. It makes her feel so good to make him unravel, to watch his eyes roll in the back of his head, hips shifting and cock pulsing under her hand.

Sometimes when she’s on the massage table and he’s working his magic, she wishes she could put her hands on him in any capacity. The strain in her body melts away to make room for a fog of gratitude and desire and she wants to give it all back to him.

He groans at the delicious pressure of her tongue, of the suction of her cheeks. Humming around him, she pumps his firm flesh with her hands and mouth until he's panting hard, fisting the sheets and her hair in desperation.

"Betty," he warns, and she can feel his pelvic muscles tightening, his body lifting up to hers. She rubs the coarse hair on his pubic bone affectionately to encourage him and swallows preemptively around him. With a strangled grunt, Jughead’s hips pop off the mattress and his come hits the back of her throat. Gently milking him of the rest, Betty swallows enough that by the time he seems to return to himself there’s none left to spill on his thighs.

“I love you.” He hums, satisfied, as he massages the usual knot in her shoulder.

She kisses his hand and pushes it away. “Later,” she promises. For now, she crawls back up and snuggles into side, relishing the way they fit around one another.

~~~~~~

They don’t always talk the whole hour because they know they’ll talk at home. He always laves extra attention onto her tattoo and neck until her eyelashes flutter in relief. Sometimes he just stays in the room when she’s supposed to get undressed or redressed so they have a few more minutes together, but today she has something special planned.

“Um, Jug? Can you turn around or leave for a second while I handle the comment card?”

“Why can’t I watch? Am I too distracting?” he teases, rubbing the juncture between her neck and shoulder in a way that makes her want to sink into him and push her dress back off.

“It’s a surprise.” She bats her eyelashes with a little pout even though she _knows _it’s his weakness.

With a long-suffering sigh, Jughead kisses her forehead, turns around, and folds his arms across his chest. “Keeping me on my toes, Betts.”

“As always, Juggie.” She kisses his shoulder in thanks and digs into the giant tote bag Cheryl let her borrow for the special occasion. She pulls out a home-crafted portfolio with its fuzzy watercolors and takes a deep breath. Even if he thinks it’s cheesy, JB will probably get a kick out of it. On a comment card, she writes her message and sticks it inside the portfolio like a bookmark.

When she approaches with the gift, he looks surprised. “I know our anniversary isn’t for a few more weeks, but I figured if you wanted to write something alongside it for JB’s birthday...or maybe just...I don’t know...read it.” She holds it out to him, trying not to chew on her lip.

Rubbing her arm, he opens the portfolio to its bookmark and the comment card on the first page. “To many more adventures. Love, Betty.” His boyish grin makes an appearance, making her heart pound even harder as he pulls away the card to see the page underneath. They’re watercolors drawings of the little adventures she’s been able to put together from him and JB’s rubber duck tales.

Jughead makes a few noises of awe and disbelief as he keeps paging through, delicately turning each page. When he looks up, there’s a very fine glaze and deep-rooted affection in his eyes. “You got me a book.”

She nods.

“You didn’t just..._get _me a book. You _made_ me one.”

“Well, it’s your story, your voice. The art is just...”

“You,” he finishes, awed enough that she feels a squeeze in her chest that makes her cheeks blush warm. “You...are...extraordinary.” They stare at each for a heated minute, the air thick with relaxing music and adoration. His eyes crinkle, somehow deepening his smile. “My beloved.”

Careful not to crush the portfolio, they guide each other from the backs of their necks into a tender kiss, repeatedly pressing into one another until her smile breaks the seal.

Bouncing on her toes, she looks down at the images in his hands. “So you like it?”

“I love it. I’m gonna write up the stories when I get home tonight. You wanna take this with you while I finish cleaning up?”

“Mmhm.”

“Don’t forget to drink your water,” he warns, kissing her forehead, nose, and lips in quick succession before holding the door open.

“I won’t.”

Cheryl’s already poured her a glass of blueberry water and is draped happily over an armchair in the corner with a fashion magazine. “Are you done staring into each other's eyes or should I keep reading?"

"We're done, Cheryl. Love you, Jug"

"Love you, too."

Cheryl scoffs, flipping a page in her magazine. Betty squeezes Jughead's hand in goodbye and smiles until he disappears back behind the curtain.

"Okay, Cher. You ready to go?"

Betty is unceremoniously led to the jewelry counter of her cousin's favorite store.

"Try those on," Cheryl orders with an absent wave of her hand. The combination of milky skin and scarlet nails summons trembling salespeople who fumble with keys and displays. She's used to being Cheryl's mannequin for Polly's gifts, so she dutifully tries various styles of rings on, suggesting different looks and idling over a few selections that she prefers for herself. "Indulge, my dear cousin." Cheryl looks particularly scheme-y, her fingers covered in various gold and ruby rings to match her lipstick. The cherry earrings Cheryl's wearing are a little more casual than her usual taste and Betty has a strong suspicion Toni finally followed Jughead's lead in the gift-giving division in an attempt to win her over. "You are _sickeningly _happy, by the way."

"Are we?" She grapples with a pink-stoned beauty, then a sapphire.

"_We_? I'm choking on vomit as we speak."

A few of the salespeople exchange silent glances.

“I can’t help it. I’ve never come close to feeling this way before. When we’re together it’s like we’re the best version of ourselves - the happiest, most supportive and loving and _passionate_ we've ever been. We want what’s best for each other, and while sometimes we may disagree on what that is, we respect each other too much to let anything get between us.”

"You don't need to sell me on it. He works with his hands. Enough said."

"Cher!" she hisses with a scandalized glance at the salespeople.

Rolling her eyes, Cheryl chats about what they'd like to adorn their own hands with. After a materialistic but fun bit of bonding, Cheryl waves her off amidst the jangling of her additional bracelets. "I'm making my final selection. Go away so Polly can't pry the info out of you, my weak and happy cousin."

With one last wistful glance at a few pieces she thinks are truly lovely, Betty heads out. It's not like she's in a rush to adorn herself in pretty jewelry, but she does _think _about a certain bare finger a lot more often now that she’s found love. Jughead and her had talked about things when they were moving in together - where they stood on marriage in general and with one another. _Open_. Not rushing. Not right away.

They have already talked about if she would change her last name or if they would want kids. They're on the same page about pretty much everything. They're just taking their time, working through any potential knots like when they trade massages on especially long days.

She loves him. He loves her. For now, that's enough.

~~~~~

He holds her wrist, wriggling their fingers together in a massage, but for some reason he doesn’t use as much oil as usual.

"You've been working so hard lately with all those beautiful drawings, I feel like I have to give your hands some extra attention."

"You don't have to," she tries, even though she does appreciate it.

"I do." His gaze feels like a warm towel across her body and her face, flushing everything and bringing it to attention. "I have this new technique I want to try and I was wondering if you could give me some feedback."

"Okay." Squirming, she prepares herself for something bizarre. He pulls something out of his pocket and slips the metal band around her ring finger.

His voice is quiet, contemplative. "How does that feel?"

As much as she'd make fun of Polly for even _thinking_ this, her heart feels at peace with him.

"Good," she says quietly, flexing her fingers around his. It's like his gaze slips right past her body and into her soul, the gentle caress across her knuckles grounding her to him.

"Good enough to make it...permanent?" When she stares at him, struck silent, he gets down on one knee, kissing her hand. "What I’m trying to say is…" She shoots upright, sheets falling aside as she tries to memorializes the moment through a sheen of happy tears. "Betty Cooper, will you marry me?"

"_Yes! _Yes, I’ll marry you!” He stands up just in time to steady her as she slides towards him into kisses and excitement. She can barely _breathe_ she’s smiling and laughing so much. Adrenaline rolls through her body as the reality hits her that she’s engaged to the love of her life. After a few more passionate kisses she pulls back just enough to take in his happy face, to actually take a look at the ring. She recognizes it from the recent treasure hunt with her cousin. “It’s beautiful! You’re beautiful! You didn’t have to do this for me. I’m shocked you worked with _Cheryl_.”

“She needed my advice, I needed hers. It worked out. We’re merging the families, aren’t we?” His smile is so sincere, so absolutely _hers_.

“Oh,” she cries, hugging him close. “I’m so sorry! But I’m so happy, too!”

He rubs her back gently, _aw_ing over her emotions. “I’m happy, too.”

There’s no way she can relax enough to enjoy the rest of the massage or even lay back down. “Can I just hold you like this for the rest of the hour?”

He rubs his hand through his hair and she absently wants to cover his finger with a ring of his own. “Actually, I was off the clock starting with your appointment. Please excuse the grande illusion. Everything’s been approved by the powers that be. I was kind of hoping I could get you dressed and take you home for a proper celebration. Unless you _really _want to finish the massage.”

She cups his cheek in her hand. “I _really _want to spend the rest of my life with you.”

His smile fits perfectly against her palm. “Likewise, Betts.”

~~~~~

Their arms are slung around one another’s waists as they wait eagerly for JB to open the dedication page.

_"I'm one lucky duck to know you." _She looks up at them, aghast. "_Gross_."

"I told you she'd love it," Jughead deadpans.

“No, it’s sweet!” Betty pleads, even as JB comes in to hug them both at the same time.

“You’re both total nerds. What a match made in...Serpentine Spa.”

“We’re trendsetters,” Jughead declares, ruffling her side-braid. Across the reception hall, Cheryl’s dancing with Toni and cheering encouragingly at her brother while he and Polly play a set with their band.

The playlist has been a bit erratic but everyone seems to be having fun.

“This one goes out to my sister and the man who healed her with loving hands–”

“Oh my god,” Betty mutters, clutching Jughead tighter in mortification. Shaking with muffled laughter, Jughead tries not to make eye contact with his sister, who’s got both eyebrows raised. At the first guitar riff, a few of their friends and family start screaming and knock their chairs over to rush to the dance floor.

“Family,” Jughead says, shaking his head in bemused disbelief.

“Family,” she agrees, squeezing his hand and leading him over to dance.

**Author's Note:**

> Listen. Listen. This has been in my folder for so long that I had to legit sit back and try to think if I had a beta for it at the time. @jandjsalmon, thank you for educating me on so many things, including use of the term massage therapist vs masseur. @thetaoofbetty always encourages my fluff and smut so thanks for sending me gifs of Jughead's back (and Betty's, at some point, I think), for inspiration. Have you all had massages? They can be heavenly things. I'm always ready to take a nap or stay naked between clean sheets after a good massage. What do you think about these two sweeties thus far? Fav comment card or exchange? Haha. See? They're important! You know I run almost purely on deep-dish pizza and feelings so share some of yours, por favor, and have an amazing day!


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